Ocean this November scalds my feet moments after emergence until
my calves scream for mercy, so I run with waves echoing in the throats
of boys passionate to save a family of drowning mice among the rocks.
Boys who follow me into the foam, naked as Venus under my clothes
and playing a pipe to entice them while their Mother’s eyes shift from me
back to them and worry about the cold cold water, their own feet sane dry and wondering about my age, shocked that I might be a Mother of the boy holding my hand.
He is not my son, of course, but if he was, of course I would still play this way, running until my pants to the waist darken. I would still see the swollen
waves in the white mist appear as the Goddess’ bare thighs opening.
And her music would still draw me forward, toward the salty depths to the place where forever I am a child of the universe and growing up means there is no one to stop me when the water shouts my name over and over and over until I answer.